That's My Name
by Roland Holmes
Summary: It's been seven years since Reichenbach, and Sherlock has been hiding away ever since. His life is finally regaining relative normalcy. But that's all about to change as he meets a boy with an interesting comment and a fascinating name...
1. Oddly Familiar

"Hey! Mister, hey!"

Sherlock sighed. People.

"Mister!"

He _hated_ people.

"Hey! Sir!"

Especially persistent people.

"Mist- ugh!"

At that he turned, a smile already on his face. The owner of the voice had obviously fallen. He supposed it was worth his time to see _that_ spectacle. Therefore he was completely unsurprised to find a frustrated four-year-old in the leaves behind him.

However, it was a bit of a shock how oddly familiar the boy's face was.

He couldn't quite put his finger on it – the roundness, the point of the nose, the too-dark cobalt eyes...

Irrelevant. What was important was that he was currently watching a child nearing the point of tears, and that would most definitely not bode well for a quiet stroll in the park.

He hurried forward as fast as his limp would allow – damned untrained fencers – and crouched on the ground beside him. Grimacing as his trousers were dirtied, he gripped the child by his elbows and helped him to his feet.

He attempted to soothe the boy. "Um, calm down. Stop crying. You're fine." He sighed, frustrated. "Stop blubbering-" he growled, too low to be heard. It seemed as though the mop of blonde hair may finally be quieting down.

Finally, the dark eyes stopped watering, and the sniffling came to an end. He almost smiled at the welcome change, but was a bit preoccupied with avoiding the dirty hands reaching out to him for a hug.

"Er, no. Thank you? No," he said again, slightly annoyed. This is why he particularly despised children. They mess themselves, cry, then insist on sharing it all with you.

With the squeals quieted, he stood and began on his way once more.

Only to be stopped again by the whimpering voice.

"Wait, mister! I didn't even get to talk t' you!"

With a resigned sigh, he turned again to face the child. The boy saw his chance and rushed forward to leap into a surprised Sherlock's arms. Facing the options of either dropping the child or dealing with a dirtied shirt, he chose the one without the possible law suit. Uttering a grunt, he hoisted the boy into a more comfortable position on his bicep.

Looking around once in the hopes of finding his parents, he sighed again in disappointment. Irresponsible, not to mention entirely too obnoxious.

"Make it quick then. Your parents are probably worried," he warned, inwardly thinking the opposite. Whoever manages to rid themselves of the sniveling whirlwind of tears and grime that comprises young children was smarter than most.

"Nah, my dad's busy talking with mum," he assured him, clutching the thick coat sleeve. Seeming to be reminded of his important news, he brightened. "Yeah! My dad! I had to tell you..." he motioned for the man to move closer. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock complied. "You walk funny like him."

He almost dropped the child. This was the reason for losing five minutes of his precious time? To hear about some brat's father and his limp? "How fascinating. Now, I really must be on my way-"

"Did you get hurt for real? 'Cause when it's her week, mummy always says that he's fakin' it." The boy nodded gravely, as though it were the most important of secrets. "She says that an es-pert told him so once." The scrunched up face he made while trying to pronounce "expert" was almost humorous.

For some reason, the talk of a false limp also struck him as repetitive. Why, though? He didn't remember anyone with a psychosomatic limp, or if he did, he deleted it.

He shrugged the thought away. Unimportant. Though this child's talk of medical expertise and parental feuding was a bit interesting. It could possibly be helpful in future cases involving divorce and disbanded marriages... Besides, he _was_ only going to meet Mycroft. And he had no qualms with making _him_ wait.

"Is that so?" he asked, a bit of mirth in his tone.

The blonde head nodded vigorously. "Mm-hm. Says s'all in his head. So is yours real, Mister?"

He couldn't help it – he smiled at the boy. He passed it off on that vague familiarity. "Yes, it's very real, I assure you." And it was true. He could still feel the dull throb of the gash there, and the sting of the anti-biotic. Why on earth his trainer had thought matching him against a two-year fencer was a good idea was beyond him.

"How did ya get it?"

"Sword fight," he lied, but only slightly. It really wasn't worth his time to explain the difference.

"Amazing." He had to admit, the look of open admiration was sort of endearing. But even that held the tainted feel of déjà vu. His face once again alighting in the appearance of a look that said I-completely-forgot-but-I-have-a-question, the boy asked, "What's your name, Sir?"

He grinned. "Sherlock Holmes."

The boy's jaw dropped. "Nuh-uh! You're fibbing."

It was the man's turn to be puzzled. "Why in the world would you assume that?"

"'Cause your name's not Sherlock. That's my name."

The shock on his face must have been all too evident, seeing as the boy immediately burst into giggles. "You're funny, Mister Sherlock."

The elder was not as amused. His name was a thing he took pride in. It was as unique as his occupation. That another would have it – someone as common as this _child_ – slightly frustrated him.

It was even more infuriating to hear the boy's apparent father call out their name across the park, and to have them both turn.

The child giggled once more. "Me, not you. That's my dad."

Holmes nodded. Of course. He was surprised – with how engrossed he'd been in his thoughts, he'd forgotten that this boy was technically missing. He glanced up in the direction the voice had come from.

Sure enough, an older man, likely approaching his fifties, was hobbling toward them with the aid of a sleek silver cane. He had sandy hair that was mainly threaded through with gray. His haircut seemed remnant of military service, but the clothing and evident family suggested that he'd been discharged for some time.

The pale man bent to set the boy on the ground to go to his father, but he clutched resolutely at the long coat, instead opting to bounce in place at his feet.

He saw the face turn up briefly to observe before it disappeared once again beneath the locks. He kept his eyes trained on the grass as he proceeded. Definitely old military respect habits. Just as expected.

And, when the man came to a halt before them, it seemed his limp had disappeared. Definitely psychosomatic. No surprise.

And when he lifted that haggard face to look at his child's rescuer, the identical cobalt eyes widened in shock at meeting equally-stunned gray ones.

They stood there for a moment, the young boy trapped between them in their confusion, neither daring to look away for fear that the image would dissolve.

Sherlock was the first to snap out of it. He thought he'd gotten over his delusions years ago. He had believed that he'd finally managed to delete John Watson after all of the extensive therapy Mycroft had made him endure.

Apparently not, considering his illusion stood before him once more. A bit older and more tired, but definitely the same man.

He patted the young boy on the head once more and turned, prepared to leave and continue with his day.

And was stopped dead when the illusion breathed one word. "Sherlock?"

That was new. The others had never uttered a sound. They usually just stared at him blankly with dead eyes. Interesting. Maybe this new strength was brought on by the child's similarities.

"Yes, daddy?" he heard the answer given.

The father did not respond. Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder, shoving him around to face the man once again. The expression had not changed, save for the slight hint of hysteria in the dark gaze.

That touch was far too real. You couldn't imagine a grip like that, the pressure of what he knew to be calloused pads digging into his bony shoulder.

How strange. He hadn't thought that his delusions could provoke any senses excluding sight.

And now that the thought entered, with it came a fourth sense. It was slightly musky scent, yet clean, and most definitely _John_.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. Relapses were definitely adding insult to a literal injury. He so did not need this right now.

And yet he couldn't break his gaze from those dark blue eyes. They bored into his, locking into and sharing his disbelief, his frustration, his sorrow.

"God, it's not you. It _can't_ be you. You're dead. I saw you. I _felt_ your..."

And all at once, Sherlock's world was spinning. He needed to leave, to be anywhere but here. He needed to go home (the one that would never be the home that 221B Baker Street had once been), curl up on a sofa that was not truly his, and be silent and still until Mycroft made him get up and, for God's sake, Sherlock, just eat _something_.

But still the hand was firm on his shoulder, rooting him in place. And just as quickly as it arrived, its pressure left and was renewed in a much less pleasant place.

His nose felt like it had exploded, and stars swam before his eyes. He staggered back and, hindered by a bum leg, landed promptly on his arse.

Meanwhile, an all-too-real John Watson was clutching his fist in what appeared to be pained disbelief, and his son stood, terrified, between the two.

"Jesus," he muttered, examining the knuckles. Then seeming to remember why they hurt, he looked to Sherlock in a panic, suddenly horrified. "You're... _alive_? Oh, God, no. You were dead, and Moriarty was dead, too, and I..." He broke out into a grin as suddenly as his blow had been delivered. "And I just gave you what I've know you've fuckin' deserved for the past eight years!" He burst into hearty laughter, doubled over and clutching frantically at his sides.

The bleeding man watched him in stunned silence for a moment before beginning to chuckle himself. And then he wasn't just chuckling, he was _guffawing_, and John wasn't just doubled over, he was on the ground beside Sherlock, gripping his friend's wrist in an attempt not to roll away. And they were noisy, and boisterous, and the loudest in the park, and neither cared that people were staring, or that the little boy still waited in scared confusion beside them, or that Sherlock's veins were evidently perfectly content with emptying themselves onto the green grass beneath them. All that mattered was that they were here, goddammit, and that John had given his best friend a punch to the face, and that the holes that had been festering inside them for seven years suddenly began to throw out bare threads in the hope of being mended.

All that mattered was that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had been reunited.

**Author's Note: Sherlock belongs to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Not me.**

**Not sure of whether to continue with this. Thoughts are much appreciated!**


	2. And There was Hope

John Watson groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

Why wouldn't she just _stop talking_?

The woman before him evidently was oblivious to his obvious annoyance.

"… and you know what I found when I started cleaning up after him – by the way, thanks _so much _for setting _that _example for him," his ex-wife huffed angrily.

Ex. He had never been so happy with those two letters. They meant he wouldn't have to deal with her again for a week.

"Are you even listening, John? He had a toy _gun_!" she exclaimed, furious.

"They're pretty common for boys his age, Mary," he grumbled. "It's not as if he could do any harm with it.

"No harm? What about his _mental_ stability? You're encouraging violence to a four-year-old!"

"I encouraged defense. Believe it or not, he may actually need to _use _a gun someday." His voice held a biting edge. Unwanted memories flashed before his eyes. Exhaling deeply, he relaxed. "And it's only a _toy_, Mary."

She glared at him briefly before uttering angrily, "You're impossible, John Watson." With that, she snatched her purse from the bench they shared. As she stormed off, she called over her shoulder, "That gun had better not come with him next week." She marched to where their son stood with his namesake and gave him a hug goodbye. With a final glare, she got into a cab and drove away.

John didn't see her leave.

His eyes were locked on a pair some fifty feet away. Staring into them, he was thrown into a memory that occurred only minutes ago, yet it seemed like a lifetime.

* * *

_A spark of panic ignited when he realized he had no idea where his son was. How had he escaped yet again?_

_Hindered by his limp, he began ascending the slight slope in the direction of the playground. Perhaps he was just playing over there…._

_He was stopped by a noise behind him. He turned to find his son sitting, sniffling, on the ground, with a man in dark clothing attempting to comfort him._

_He worried for a moment before breaking into a smile. Sherlock had just leapt into the extremely uncomfortable stranger's arms. The fear dissolved, and he slowed to a more comfortable pace._

_Eyes trained on the pair, he chuckled again as the man glanced hopefully around the park. It appeared as though John was less noticeable in his older age._

_A few moments later, he decided to make his presence known. "Sherlock," he called._

_Both heads turned, and the man set his boy on his feet. He smiled down at the ground – his son must have introduced himself. When he didn't hear the patter of feet approaching, he looked up once more to see Sherlock gripping at the man's coat. Hiding a grin once more, he watched the grass again. It was good to make a memory of it before it was hidden by the coming winter._

_As two polished shoes entered his field of vision, he finally looked up to great his son's rescuer._

_And stared._

_He _knew _those eyes._

_He was frozen in place and could only watch, stunned, as the pupils he was trained on exploded, nearly swallowing the icy gray irises. His own widened simultaneously._

_Well, at least this explained his ease with a stranger handling his son._

_Unsurprisingly, the thought brought no comfort._

_His eyes scanned the pale face before him, waiting for the image to dissolve. This _must _be a dream._

_And yet the sheen of cold sweat was most definitely there. As were the high cheekbones and unruly locks of dark hair. He knew that scarf, had rummaged through that coat._

_He had felt that wrist, and its lack of pulse._

_He had seen this man _dead_._

_All too soon, that look of dreadful shock had left the eyes he knew so well, and his open face had once again become a cold, calculating mask. He looked at John as if he were a perfect stranger._

_Worse. He looked at John as if he weren't there._

_And suddenly he was leaving, turning to disappear again. He was surprised by the sound of himself whispering, "Sherlock?" The voice was unfamiliar – it was far too quiet, too weak, too _broken _to be his own. He completely missed his son's response, distracted by the fact that he'd stopped him, the man was no longer leaving. He was almost relieved._

_The world spun around him, and he was falling. No, he was moving, touching, halting the man turning to go._

_He would _not _let him leave. Not again._

_And again their eyes met. Then it was broken for an instant as the cold ones melted before closing, and the man shook his head. He frowned and his eyes flew open again. It was as if he couldn't control their gaze. _

_They held there for an instant that felt like an eternity. Neither moved to leave, neither attempted to hide the hurt disbelief welling up._

_Once more his voice unexpectedly broke the tense quiet. "God, it's not you. It _can't _be you. You're dead. I saw you. I _felt _your…." And the man before him looked dizzy and confused. He looked like a frightened animal about to flee. He only tightened his grip in response._

_That heightened contact only served his disbelief. He couldn't be here, couldn't be touching Sherlock Holmes, the man who was alive but not. This was wrong._

_And suddenly, his hand was moving without his permission, intending to prove this image's non-existence. For just an instant, he considered that he may have gone insane. It was probably just some man who looked similar, and now he was about to _punch _him-_

_But his hand connected, despite his pitiful efforts to stop it. And when it did, he knew it was real. A flash of faded memory flashed through him at the familiar feeling of his fist connecting with Sherlock's face. It was the first time they'd met Irene Adler. However, this time he hadn't avoided the nose and teeth. How Ms. Adler would have been disappointed. He almost smiled._

_Then he was clutching an aching fist, glaring at it as if it offended him by hurting. "Jesus," he growled, checking for broken bones. For a split second, he forgot precisely why he was in pain, and a low moan below him launched him back into his situation. Sherlock was on the ground beneath him, blood running, unhindered, down his pale face. The icy eyes locked on his once more, no accusations or hints of betrayal in them._

_At the innocence, he recognized his actions. He'd just brutalized this man for simply existing! "You're… _alive_? Oh, God, no. You were dead, and Moriarty was dead, and I…" he cut off, a thought occurring to him. This was the man who was constantly ignorant of others being equal human beings, __as well as the man who was arse to nearly everyone he talked to. "And I just gave you what I've known you've fuckin' deserved for the past eight years!"_

_He began to giggle madly, bending over and gasping for breath. Oh, God, it felt good to laugh. It was the first true laugh he'd had in seven years. Perhaps it was due to his age, or possibly the leftover panic at this enormous shock – likely the latter – but he was losing air fast, and then he couldn't stand, so he opted to fall to his knees beside the now-chuckling sociopath. And at this, the low rumble turned to a full-fledged fit, and Sherlock rolled to his side as well. Both were oblivious to the child next to them, and the stares their laughs were receiving._

_And John reached out, internally sighing in relief as his fingers clutched the think wool of a familiar dark coat. He wrapped his fingers tightly around his wrist, determined not to let him slip away. No, he wouldn't get away again. John wouldn't allow it – couldn't _survive _it if he left again._

_That was when he finally recognized the feeling that had been welling up in his chest ever since they first met eyes. Hope began to bloom once more. The nightmares didn't matter. The divorce didn't matter. The odd looks didn't matter._

_Sherlock Holmes was alive. John Watson was no longer alone. And there was hope._

* * *

**A/N: Due to the surprising amount of positive replies, I've decided to continue this fanfiction. Again, reviews are more than welcome and very appreciated. Thank you!**


	3. Something About the Names

Shaking his head, he felt the glaze slowly life from his eyes. He saw what seemed to be concern evaporate from Sherlock's face, being replaced by a surprisingly timid smile.

That was one word that he'd never expected to use to describe his friend.

Oh, God. Friend? Were they friends? After all of these years, was it healthy how quickly John had forgotten what had torn them apart?

At the moment, he realized he utterly did not care. Let them cross _that _bridge when they came to it.

He smiled once more when he saw Sherlock tug at… Sherlock's coat. Oh, God. _That _would take some getting used to.

At the look of dread on the man's face, he dismissed that issue as well. He knew what his son would want, and he knew what his namesake would think. Or, at least he had a guess.

Sure enough, he saw the mess of dark curls shake sternly, and small shoulders slumped. He frowned, worried about a tantrum. He'd taught him not to whine. He was fairly relieved when he saw the tiny form brighten at something the other had said.

Only to grow suspicious. What could Sherlock have said to make a little boy smile?

He received his answer in the form of a blur of blonde hair as his son ran to him and took his cane.

"Sherlock, what do you think you are doi-" The answer hit him. He looked up to glare at the chuckling detective, who responded with a too-innocent shrug.

John huffed angrily for a moment before hobbling over to stand beside the other man. "What on earth did you tell him?" he growled.

The pale man shrugged. "Only the truth: that his mother is right and that you don't need the cane. Also, sword fighting may have been mentioned…." A thoughtful look overtook the amused smirk. "Perhaps he'd enjoy fencing – I could teach him, you know."

The thought of Sherlock and his son with swords forced a shudder through him. "I think we'll hold off on that, thanks. Meanwhile, I need that-"

"Oh, stop lying to yourself, John. You and I both know that your limp is and always was psychosomatic."

He frowned at the honest statement. "That still gives you no right to tell him that," he argued, knowing already that it was pointless.

The man before him was suddenly quiet. "Yes," he spoke softly. "I suppose you're right. I'm sorry, John."

The weight of his words was too much for the light conversation, and they both knew it. That apology wasn't merely for his wrongdoing with the youngest Watson – it was for the past seven hellish years they had both endured. He was sorry for the pain, the confusion, the destruction of the lives they had both known. It was for interrupting his life now, so many years later. He was asking not only for forgiveness, but for acceptance.

Sherlock Holmes had just placed his heart in John Watson's hands.

He couldn't bear to break it.

Instead of words, he slowly moved forward, warning him with his eyes. Wrapping his arms around the taller man, he pressed forward, reveling in the familiar smell. He smiled as he felt the wiry arms wrap around his shoulders gently. And suddenly it wasn't John hugging, it was _Sherlock, _and he was crushed against the other's chest in the tightest embrace he'd ever endured.

Wheezing, he coughed, "Uh, Sherlock, I know it's boring and all, but c-can't breathe."

The younger man froze and stepped back immediately, a light tint coloring his pale cheeks. "Right, well, yes. Sorry, for, uh, that then." John stared, agape, as the brilliant man stumbled over his words. He obviously was not used to showing affection.

And John was perfectly okay with that.

Despite the fact that they _would _still have to talk about everything at some point, he shrugged the matter off once again. Right now, they were together, and everything would work itself out.

He hoped.

"So, why the name?"

John held back a laugh. He wasn't at all surprised to hear the slight tone of annoyance in the question. He knew Sherlock loved the uniqueness of his name, and would hate for anyone else to have it.

He counted that as a small victory.

"Long story. Though I'm sure you can work it out."

The icy glare was definitely justified. The man had earned it for tattling to his son about the limp.

"Why did... Sherlock pick you out, anyway? He doesn't usually talk to strangers. He's actually a bit antisocial." This similarity hadn't occurred to him previously. He frowned a bit.

Sherlock scoffed, looking pleased. "Actually, he came to ask if _my _injury was real." He grinned fiercely.

_His _injury? Sherlock had hurt himself? He hadn't noticed any hobbling... Wait – _real_?

"What do you mean, real? I've never told him why I got mine!"

"Apparently, his mother has," he shrugged, disinterested.

John fumed. Part of the agreement was that the separate parents would not talk down the other during their week. That Mary would have crossed the line like this rubbed him the wrong way.

"By the way, when did it return? It was most definitely cured... before," the uneasy voice said. He would not meet his eyes.

Trying to push away the guilt over Sherlock's discomfort, he huffed. This would only make it worse. "About a year after you... yeah. I'd been dating Mary for almost a month."

He nodded thoughtfully. "I see."

There was a familiar pause between them, and for a moment, as he watched his son romping about with the cane, he forgot that this was new. It all felt so natural – watching his son, beside his best friend. Together forever, Holmes and Watson.

He glanced at Sherlock from the corners of his eyes. To any bystander, he would appear disinterested and bored – a casual visitor dragged to the park to play babysitter with his mate.

Only John could have noticed the hint of a smile ghosting at the corners of his lips.

Seeing him there beside him – remembering that this wasn't a dream, that Sherlock was really, truly here – was more than enough to boost his spirits once more.

"Coffee?" he asked with a grin.

"Yes, I think so," the detective replied with a smirk to match his own.

"Sherlock!" John called to the boy. He grimaced as he noticed that his cane was currently being used as a sword. The user of the "weapon" groaned and shuffled reluctantly over to his father. John held out a hand expectantly.

The boy immediately protested. "But it's my sword!"

John raised a brow. "And just what would you possibly need a sword for?"

He brightened at the question. "I'm gonna be a pirate!" he chirped.

John couldn't restrain his laughter when the other man's eyes lit up. Both Sherlocks promptly glared at him. The doctor just went into another fit.

Sherlock defiantly ruffled the boy's hair, keeping a hand on his head possessively. "_I_ think it's a brilliant aspiration," he said with a defensive look toward the father.

"See, dad," he argued smugly. He crossed thin arms over a small chest.

With a huge smile, he suddenly scooped up his son, and in one swift motion, perched him atop Sherlock's shoulders. The man flinched, but managed to refrain from throwing him off.

He shot John a look of distaste. "Take him off. _Now_," he growled.

John only laughed in response.

"Or he's coming down my way," he threatened, raising a brow. It wasn't a bluff.

Just as John reached up to retrieve him, Sherlock grabbed onto the sooty curls. Their owner grimaced.

"_Please_ can I stay up here, Dad? It's higher than when you do it."

That earned him a chuckle from his pedestal. John gave him a hopeful glance, and the sound turned to a resigned sigh.

"Only until the shop," he amended, frowning. "And _only_ because he was intentionally clever."

"Sure, of course," he agreed. John's eyes danced with mischief. This could be fun.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they were seated in a small cafe. John sat opposite a grown man acting like a disgruntled four-year-old.

Most likely due to the actual four-year-old situating himself on his lap.

Sherlock had crossed his arms across his chest and was leaned as far back in his chair as possible in an attempt to avoid contact. His lips were well on their way to being permanently turned down.

Meanwhile, there was a bouncing blonde boy babbling excitedly to his father. John nodded and occasionally asked for Sherlock's input with a grin.

He was in the midst of doing so again when he was interrupted.

"We need to do something about the names."

John raised a brow. Sherlock sighed in exasperation.

"Your son and I. _Our_ names... name." He frowned. "Because for some reason, _you_ felt the need to share it with _him_." He gestured toward the child with his chin.

"It was-"

"Sentiment. Yes, yes, I'm sure." It did not evade John the way that Sherlock carefully avoided stating the cause of the sentiment. He was more than willing to oblige. "Does he have a nickname? No, of course not," he interrupted himself.

John sighed, not bothering to ask how he'd known.

The object of the conversation suddenly spoke up. "Nana calls me Benny!"

Sherlock sent a questioning look at the nodding John. "Benny?"

"His middle name. Short for Benedict."

He brightened. "Benedict. Proud name. Good. Benedict it is, then."

"But she calls me _Benny_-"

"Benedict," he said firmly. The tone of horror at the idea of using a nickname made John chuckle.

The startled boy looked hopefully at his father. "You won't call me _that_, will you, Dad?"

"Of course not, Sher- Ben," he corrected at Sherlock's glare.

The child gave a giggle. "I like Ben. It's not as weird."

"And off you go," Sherlock responded, immediately removing him from his lap.

John burst into laughter and Ben looked up at the man holding him at arm's reach with an expression of betrayal. John took him into his own lap before the now-standing detective had a chance to drop him. "Don't feel bad. To be honest, I'm surprised he even went along with it in the first place." He noticed the empty chair. "And just where do you think you're going?"

He gave a smirk. "I'm going home." And with a dramatic twist of a Belstaff coat, Sherlock Holmes was off.

**AN: Thanks for all of the lovely reviews – they really help to feed the story! Sorry for being so slow to update – I've been writing it as I'm going, so patience is much appreciated. Thoughts are wonderful, so feel free to share!**


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